The Long Ride Home
by Nameless She
Summary: Very AU. Contains slashy elements. Set in the west, Sam is on his way to meet his father when he's attacked by a dead man and rescued by a handsome stranger.


(A/N: I do not own any of the characters depicted nor am I profiting off this. Just to warn you, my knowledge of the Wild West is very limited. Please forgive the glaring errors.)

Sam ducked behind the tree as the bandit fired a second shot. This was no ordinary, run of the mill highwayman. His skin had the weathered look of old leather, and bits had peeled away to reveal rotten muscle and white, chipped bone.

The bandit blasted a chunk out of the tree bark, his laughter thin and reedy.

"Come out, whelp," he said, "Take it like a man."

Sam was getting sick of the grating voice. He'd done his best, but how was he supposed to know the laws of reality didn't apply in the wild west?

"Just go away."

More laughter followed.

If Sam had just tied the knot a little tighter when he secured his horse for the night, he wouldn't be in this mess. But he'd been riding steady for about a week; the last train stopped just short of the Winchester Ranch, and by the time he'd made camp, he was ready to drop. He'd felt no apprehension about bedding down for the night under the stars.

The horse disagreed. She'd broken free, kicking up a cloud of dust so thick he couldn't see the bandit advancing. The bandit had fired, neatly clipping Sam's only weapon, an old pistol that had clearly seen better days. Now, it lay smoking on the bedroll.

Why hadn't Sam stayed in Boston? There, the dead had never tried to kill him.

"Don't be shy."

Another shot blasted the dust to Sam's left.

"Look, you're dead, and I'd rather not join you," Sam said, "Why don't you just ride on out of here. I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding--"

"Hell, now don't be that way! I just want to be friends."

"No, sir, I'm pretty sure you don't."

Sam heard his footsteps moving closer, just to his left. If he could surprise him, maybe he could tackle him before he had a chance to fire another shot. A greenhorn he might have been, but in college he'd learned a thing or two about putting a man down and keeping him down.

He took a deep breath, trying not to breathe through his nose. If he had any doubts the man was dead, the stench would have dispelled them. As it was, his eyes watered terribly. He tried to gauge just where the bandit was standing. He tried to peek around the tree.

He glimpsed the barrel of the gun before it fired. The bullet grazed his ear as he jerked back. This was just not his day, his week, or even his month. He touched his ear; his fingertips came back dotted with blood. That made five shots. The bandit had one shot left before he had to reload.

"There's gold in my bag. Take it," Sam said, "We con both go about our business. There's no need to end this with blood."

Silence stretched between them, but Sam thought he heard the bandit shift to his left. He hadn't brought a whole lot with him, but there was enough gold to pay for a hotel room and a return ticket should the reunion prove disastrous. He hadn't seen John Winchester since he was a baby. He probably wouldn't even recognize him as the only picture he'd seen was folded, faded, and torn.

Whatever had driven his mother back east must have been terrible enough that she'd choose one son over the other. John could be a real bastard, and his brother could hate him. Sam had no illusions of a tearful reunion. If things went as badly as he expected, the money was meant to buy his ticket back home, but if a little gold meant his life, Sam was willing to part with it.

"What do you say to that?" Sam asked, "Can we let bygones be bygones?"

He heard a click, and when he looked up, the barrel of a gun stared him down. The bandit had worked his way around the tree. He had missed the soft footsteps until it was too late.

This was it. This was how it ended.

Sam couldn't breathe, couldn't think but to pray to whatever god was listening to deliver him.

"What good would fool's gold do me?" the bandit asked, "Flesh and blood, now that would sweeten the deal."

He fired his last shot before Sam could lunge, and for one terrible second, Sam thought he'd been hit. But in that instant, the bandit lurched sideways. He hit the ground, pinned under a stranger. Sam stared.

The stranger had come from out of nowhere.

"A little help, buddy!"

The stranger punched the bandit hard in the jaw. The resounding crack snapped his neck. Sam shook himself, rushing to the man's side. He caught one of the bandit's arms. He tried to ignore the squish of decaying flesh under his fingertips.

The stranger pulled a gun out of his holster and fired one shot into the bandit's chest. His body jerked, skin blackening as he seemed to burn from the inside out. The stranger rolled off him as his body collapsed into ash.

In the moonlight, as the stranger leaned back to catch his breath, Sam heard the angels sing hallelujah. This was no ordinary good Samaritan. He'd been saved by Adonis himself.

In chaps.

"You saved me," Sam said, suddenly breathless.

The man glanced his way, green eyes flashing irritation.

"Where's your horse?"

It didn't seem like he expected an answer, and frankly, there were other things Sam preferred to give him. He settled for extended his palm. He pulled the stranger to his feet.

"I'm Sam," he said, "Thanks for the rescue. I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't come along."

"You got that right. You lose your horse and you're as good as dead."

"That creep caught me off guard. I can promise it won't happen again."

The stranger smirked as he holstered his gun, "Damn right it won't. That bastard's roasting in hell. The name's Dean, by the way."

Dean was a far cry from the weathered cowboys of Sam's books. Five-o-clock shadow looked charming rather than grizzled, and his smile revealed even, white teeth. His worn cotton shirt stretched tight over his chest, and his pants, lord, his pants were hellfire. Supple leather chaps over tight trousers left little to the imagination.

"Dean," Sam said, "I owe you one."

He didn't have to wonder if Dean caught the implication. A slow smile stretched across his face. He smelled a heck of a lot better than he should, and it had been how long since Sam had been with someone? Not long before mother died, before the fire took the house. She'd come too close to catching him too many times.

Out here, under the stars, there was no one to surprise them. Before Dean could protest, Sam kissed him, Dean's hands tangling in his hair. His lips parted, tongue darting out. He tasted as good as he looked.

Sam wanted to push him back onto the bedroll, wanted to stretch out over top of him and---the thought trailed off when Dean's hands caught a hold of his hips. The tightening in his groin nearly made him cry out.

The kiss deepened, then abruptly, Dean pulled back.

"Hold on. This isn't a good idea."

"Relax. I just want to say thank you," Sam said, "Let me say thank you."

"Sammy, please---"

He silenced him with a kiss.

Dean was wrong. This was a great idea, the best he'd had since he set out on this crazy quest. As far as the bulge in Dean's pants was concerned, there was no doubt in Sam's mind Dean felt the same way.

He tugged at his shirt, sliding a hand along the flat plane of his stomach. He'd never fucked a stranger before; always it was someone safe, someone Sam knew inside and out, but there was something about this man that made him reckless. He wanted more than chaste kisses, more than clumsy caresses, but more than anything, he wanted Dean and he wanted him now.

His fingers dipped lower to the waistband of Dean's pants. Dean tensed.

"We need to stop," he said, and he started to pull away.

Sam trailed kisses down his neck. Dean groaned, his eyelids fluttering.

"Why?"

He didn't want an answer. He didn't need an answer, but he sure got one a split second later.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The voice was better than a bucket of ice water. Sam jerked back, and Dean stumbled.

An older man on a black horse glared down at them. His eyes were the same green as Dean's, but he was no rugged Adonis. This was the grizzled cowboy Sam had read about in books, the kind who'd string you up for looking at them wrong.

"This isn't what it looks like," Dean said.

"To hell it isn't! You're supposed to be tracking that zombie! Who the hell is this? One of the Clancy boys? Does your daddy know what your up to?"

When the man's gaze turned on him, Sam felt all the air rush out of his lungs.

"Who the hell am I?" he asked, "Who the hell are you? This man just saved my life, and I really don't see how this is any of your business."

One of these days Sam was going to have to learn to keep his words to himself.

"You better thank your lucky stars I've got more important things to deal with tonight than uppity trespassers," he said, "I'll tell you once and ask you one last time. I'm John Winchester. This is my land, and that's my son. What he does here is very much my business. Now who, I repeat, who the hell are you?"

Sam's stomach dropped. Whatever god had answered his prayers had deserted him.

"You're John," he said, "John Winchester?"

"Did I stutter? Yes, I'm John Winchester."

Sam had been wrong not to expect a tearful reunion. There would be tears alright, his. He tried to form words or even just syllables, but the sounds wouldn't come. John seemed to get more irritated as the silence stretched on, and Dean seemed to shrink back into the shadows.

There was just no easy way to say, _hi, I'm your long lost son; would you be kind enough to forget you saw me kissing my only brother? _It would have been easier to bring Mother back from the dead.

He took a long breath, his face tight.

"I'm Sam," he said, "Sam Winchester. Your son."

John paled, and Dean? Sam didn't dare to look his way. Not yet. It was going to be a long, tense ride to the Winchester's ranch.


End file.
